Why My Beliefs (or Lack of Beliefs) Scare Me Sometimes

I grew up in a house where God was the heartbeat of everything. Not some far-off idea, but a living thing—in the way Mama’s voice carried through the kitchen with those old spirituals, in the way Pops would pause to pray before heading out to his gig as a jazz drummer, in the way we’d fill the pews every Sunday, my small hands gripping the edge of the seat. Faith wasn’t a choice; it was the water we swam in. Back then, the world was clear-cut: good and bad, saved and lost, a straight line drawn by the Bible. I’d sit there, wide-eyed, soaking it all in, feeling like I was part of something solid. Something eternal.

But lines don’t stay straight forever. The questions started slipping in—maybe when I was a teenager, maybe later when I was out on my own—and they wouldn’t let go. Why does pain hit the hardest where faith runs deep? Why do some folks twist holiness into something ugly? Why does the preacher’s smile feel like a mask? I’d ask, and the replies—“God works in mysterious ways,” “Keep the faith”—sounded like echoes bouncing off a wall. I didn’t ditch belief altogether; I just stepped into a bigger room, one where the old certainties don’t stretch far enough.

I don’t fit in a religious box anymore, but “spiritual” doesn’t quite cover it either. I see something real in the way Mama’s church lifts its voice, in the stillness of a Buddhist temple I stumbled into once, in the poetry of a Sufi verse I read by candlelight. It’s not about choosing—it’s like they’re all brushing up against the same truth, just with different colors. But none of them feel like mine. I’m caught in the in-between, reaching for something I can’t name yet.

That’s what shakes me up. I’m 32, staring at a world that’s loud and wild, and I don’t have a tether. I scroll X, and it’s a storm—people raging about wars, floods, power grabs, all claiming they’ve got the key. I don’t. I want to plant myself somewhere solid, but the ground keeps shifting. I look at my old crew—cousins quoting scripture, friends lighting incense—and I’m jealous. They’ve got roots. Me? I’m drifting, chasing a belief that can stand up to the mess I see every day, something that doesn’t dodge the hard stuff.

What does this mean for me? I’m not sure. I’m not broken, but I’m not whole either—just here, wrestling with it all. I want a truth that holds weight, one that doesn’t buckle when the news hits or the bills stack up. I see glimmers in all these faiths, but I can’t settle on one without feeling like I’m shutting out the rest. So I keep moving, keep asking. It’s isolating, sure, but it’s real.

My family’s still back home, still wrapped in that old rhythm. I visit for holidays, and it’s like slipping into a song I used to know by heart. Mama asks if I’m “still walking with the Lord,” and I grin, sidestep the question. Pops—he’s out late playing gigs, still prays over his drumsticks—doesn’t press, but I catch the flicker in his eyes, like he’s wondering where I went. I don’t want to disappoint them, but I can’t play a part I don’t feel. What happens when they see I’m not circling back to their faith? Will they still claim me? Or will I be the shadow they whisper about over Sunday dinner?

And my future? That’s the part that gnaws at me. I think about what’s ahead—maybe a partner, kids, a life I build from scratch. But what do I hand down? Mama and Pops gave me a melody to live by, even if I’ve remixed it. What do I give? A question mark? A quiet “I don’t know”? I want something sturdy enough to carry them, but I haven’t found it yet. I don’t know if I will. All I’ve got is this openness, this ache for something true.

Then there’s the madness out there—the political tangle, the endless chatter. I can’t make heads or tails of it. Left, right, up, down—it’s a shouting match, and I don’t trust the referees. On X, folks are at it about Elon—half call him a prophet, half a con. I don’t know what to think. He’s out there, launching rockets, talking big about tomorrow, and I vibe with the ambition, but it’s like he’s in a different orbit. I don’t trust him, or the politicians, or the loudmouths online. It’s just me, sifting through the noise, looking for signal.

Sometimes I’m scared because I don’t have it locked down. I figured by now I’d know—life, meaning, the works. But here I am, watching the world spin and stumble, and I’m still hunting. I want to believe in something, not just for me, but for my folks, for the family I might make. I want a truth that doesn’t blink, that can face the dark and keep shining. Maybe it’s out there, woven through all these faiths, waiting in the cracks. Maybe I’ll find it. For now, I’m just here—walking, wondering, hoping it’s enough.